


More Than Memory

by kimi_tanoshimu



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Next to Normal - Kitt/Yorkey
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Next to Normal AU, One-Shot, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimi_tanoshimu/pseuds/kimi_tanoshimu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire can't let Enjolras go. But that's ok, because Enjolras isn't leaving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is terrifying, my first fic...!  
> Loosely based on the Broadway musical 'Next To Normal'...kind of.

“Wake up, sleepy-head.” Grantaire could hear the smirk in his voice without even opening his eyes. But when he finally did and saw him leaning against the window wearing Grantaire’s old pyjama bottoms and no shirt (of course), Grantaire couldn’t hold back his own smile.

“Enjolras,” he breathed, sitting up in the bed to look at his Apollo properly.

Grantaire’s heart broke every time at the sight of him. The blazing sunlight behind him became a simple glow around the angelic figure. His immaculate blonde waves fell gracefully around his face and, with his smooth skin and lean, muscled body, Grantaire could swear he was sculpted from marble. 

“How long have you been up?” Grantaire asked him.

Enjolras didn’t answer, aside from a shrug. 

“Well, I’m awake,” Grantaire sighed. “What now?” He hoped Enjolras heard the suggestive tone in his voice. Judging from the way he was suddenly on top of Grantaire quicker than he could react, he probably did.

Enjolras’ lips were soft and the kiss was so light that Grantaire would not have believed he was really there if it weren’t for his hands placed gently but firmly on his shoulders, gliding downwards as the kiss deepened. Grantaire, stunned by his Apollo’s advances even after all this time, couldn’t move. He let himself be pushed back on the bed and tried to return the kiss the best he could, though his head was spinning too much for him to function properly. 

Light fingertips trailed down Grantaire’s chest, then his stomach, and his breath hitched as he felt Enjolras’ tug at his waistband. Grantaire reached out to him then, his hands clumsy compared to Enjolras’ graceful caresses. Enjolras pulled away then, ignoring Grantaire’s groans of protest. 

“Maybe later,” Enjolras said, pecking his cheek before getting off the bed.

“Tease,” Grantaire sighed, smiling in spite of the situation. “Why do I even stay with you?” he wondered out loud.

“Because you love me,” Enjolras answered, quickly and simply. His smirk grew. “Because you can’t live without me. You practically worship me.” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You’re so full of yourself,” he said. 

Enjolras perched on the end of the bed again. “I’m surprised you’re not hungover,” he commented, nodding at the bottle on the nightstand. “Though, I guess, it’s kind of a record for you. You didn’t even finish the bottle.” 

Grantaire looked guiltily at Enjolras. “You mean, I didn’t finish _that_ bottle,” he corrected him, half-smiling. Enjolras didn’t respond. His face remained impassive as he looked away from him and towards the window.

Grantaire leaned forwards, reaching for Enjolras’ hand but his thin wrist slipped easily away from Grantaire’s grasp. He looked at Enjolras, slightly hurt, but then Enjolras leaned forward, kissing him harder than usual, his lips forceful against his and his tongue quickly invading Grantaire’s mouth. He moaned in response, lifting his hands to cup Enjolras’ face, but at this, Enjolras pulled away again. Grantaire frowned at him. “Stop stopping,” he grumbled, trying to pull him in again, but he stood up, grinning evilly. 

“Like I said, later,” Enjolras repeated. He crossed the room to the door. 

“Where are you going now?” Grantaire called. 

“Bathroom,” Enjolras called back. “Be back soon.”

As Enjolras walked out, Combeferre walked in, looking confused. “Grantaire?” he said. “Wh- what are you doing here?” 

“I came to see Enjolras last night,” he shrugged. “And then I stayed.”

Combeferre’s mouth fell slightly open but he quickly closed it. He put a hand to his forehead and sighed. “Grantaire,” he began, his voice forced steady. He slid his hand down to his mouth and paused, thinking. Then, “You know that Enjolras is- he’s not-”

“What?” Grantaire said sharply. He stared determinedly at Combeferre, daring him to start that argument again. “Don’t try to tell me he’s not here. You probably walked right past him. Gorgeous shirtless guy, probably smirking, wearing my pyjama bottoms with the paint?”

Combeferre was silent, but Grantaire followed his gaze down to the floor, where the paint-splattered pyjama bottoms lay.

“He probably changed when I wasn’t looking,” Grantaire said quickly. “You saw him! He walked past you on the way out!”

Combeferre closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. He held his hands out palm up as he continued. “Grantaire, please, try to- the accident was almost six months ago and you can’t still be-”

“What?” Grantaire said, shaking his head. “No, I don't- what accident? Combeferre, he was just-”

“Grantaire...he's dea-”

“No, he's not!" Grantaire bellowed. He felt so frustrated with him. Why did they always come back to this? Why was he telling him that Enjolras was- ? "You see him every day! He’s your flatmate!” 

“Was,” Combeferre said firmly, though the look of anguish on his face betrayed his steady voice. “Grantaire, he _was_ my flatmate," he repeated, though it clearly pained him to say it. Grantaire narrowed his eyes, failing to understand. Combeferre turned away, trying to compose himself. Still faced away from him, he took a shaky breath and said, “I’m calling Courfeyrac to come over, God knows he’s better at this than I am. Maybe Éponine will be with him, she can talk to you about this.” 

He walked out of the room and Enjolras came back in, dressed in a half-buttoned red shirt and jeans. Grantaire’s eyes widened as he called after Combeferre. “He’s right here, now! Look at him! Look at him, Combeferre! Talk to him!” His voice broke on the last word, and Enjolras rested a hand on his shoulder. He turned to Enjolras. “I don't understand why he's acting so weirdly."

“Hm,” Enjolras said, as he moved in next to Grantaire, draping an arm around him. “Too much studying I expect.” He kissed him lightly on the cheek and pulled him closer. Grantaire leaned into him, resting his head on his shoulder. Enjolras stiffened, but did not pull away this time. He kept his arm tightly around Grantaire. They stayed like this for a while, quiet, while Combeferre’s anxious voice sounded from the living room.

“I know, Courf, I thought he was getting better too. It’s been almost two weeks since the incident at the Musain. I really-I honestly thought that would be it, when Ép spoke to him. He was so calm afterwards. But now- he just won't accept that he's gone. Maybe it’s time to take Joly’s advice and- and-” He trailed off as Courfeyrac’s voice on the phone interrupted him.

Grantaire didn’t care what they were saying, and snuggled closer to Enjolras. What did it matter that the world was crazy? He was with Apollo; he was the only thing that Grantaire cared about. He’d never admit it, not out loud anyway and especially not to him, but Enjolras had been right earlier. Grantaire couldn’t live without him. He wouldn’t live without him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
